


The Bishop's Gambit

by primeideal



Category: Pierre Menard Author of the Quixote - Jorge Luis Borges
Genre: Chess, Gen, Yuletide 2018, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 14:54:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17003793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primeideal/pseuds/primeideal
Summary: Pierre Menard meets one of his heroes.





	The Bishop's Gambit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mk_tortie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mk_tortie/gifts).



I recently had the distinguished honor of playing a series of chess games against the worthy priest, Ruy López de Segura. I was surprised that His Illustriousness deigned to visit someone as unremarkable as myself, particularly since he has been dead for well over three hundred years, but I tried to be as hospitable as possible given the unannounced nature of his visit.

Bishop López was a gracious houseguest and did not seem taken aback at many of the modern conveniences I took for granted. When I pridefully mentioned that I had been working on a translation of his work, he politely asked to see it, and I steeled myself for any constructive criticism he could share. For who could understand the writing of Ruy López better than Ruy López?

Alas, command of French had not been his forte even in the sixteenth century, and the spelling changes that had intervened since made it difficult for him to offer advice. (At the risk of immodesty, my historic Castillian is of such fluency that we had little difficulty speaking to each other as housemates.) While I mourned the loss of such potential editorial feedback, he merely asked if I played chess myself. Upon learning that I had some skill, he proposed to play against me, and I was all too glad to accept.

“I am a player of some accomplishment,” he said, “and I would be most happy to give you odds, in the interests of a more competitive game.”

“You are my guest,” I rebutted, “and it would be unsportsmanlike to have you play for stakes.”

“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I did not intend to offer a wager, merely a friendly competition for its own sake.”

“I am mindful,” I said, “of how long a duration it has been since your recent games. I would not wish to overtax you, and in that spirit, I would welcome you to endeavor at your full strength.”

“That is most kind of you,” said the bishop, and we quickly set up.

The truth is that I did not wish to insult him. In the centuries since he had flourished, the Romantic school had fallen from its heyday, with grandiose sacrifices being replaced by the Classical masters. They in turn gave ground when the hypermodernists’ theory was expounded. No doubt, even as I write, other movements of our art are being analyzed and further developed beyond my capacity to compete—but I am a mere writer. Nevertheless, I thought it probable that, in the way one school rises to put the last to shame, his outdated skills would be no match for my contemporary understanding, and I thought it untoward to embarrass such a noble guest.

I was rudely surprised, however, by the speed with which he dismantled my preparations. Within an hour, I was on the defensive, and finally resigned. If he noticed my croweating, he was kind enough not to mention it.

That winter I was lecturing in a seminar on some of Leibniz’ more brazen proposals for a universal language, and tried to make it clear to Bishop López that he was welcome on campus. I think he felt lonely, being so far displaced from his time and homeland. But after a few days I showed him around the library, and he took to holing up in the slim Spanish-language section while I was occupied.

In the evenings we resumed our matches. He beat me soundly in the second encounter as well, with a more defensive formation than I had expected. “Do you not favor the, erm, López?” I ventured.

“Come again?”

I swiftly indicated the opening that bore his name.

“That is a useful line,” he said, “but it is far from the only one worth exploring. On occasion I prefer to develop my knight, like so.”

“Ah.” I tried to annotate our position with his thoughts, but he had given no profound insight, merely displayed a level of skill I had yet to equal.

After that, duly chastened, I accepted his offer of a handicap, and he proceeded to play without one of his rook’s pawns. This at first appeared a blessing in disguise for him, because of the speed with which he was able to develop his rook without sacrificing time to establish a foothold in the center of the board. But by doggedly pursuing trades, I ground him down and, after a few games, was eventally able to begin salvaging a draw here and there.

Was what we played actually chess, or some mere variant, devoid of the symmetry that made the original so elegant? Or was that symmetry a misnomer, since one of us had to move first, and the other was compelled to respond, eternally on the back foot? Only now, since his departure, have I had time to consider the matter in full. While part of me thinks this would be a worthwhile improvement to the game in general, to hasten the departure from opening books and require more innovative defenses, I also recognize the concern of those who might consider it unfair. This is a delicate question worthy of further study.

To return to the subject of my noble visitor, I took notation of one of our matches, and replayed it for a colleague after the seminar the following day. Dr. Vernier and I had played various blitz games together, and I was curious if he could identify the master’s style from his play. “I came across this in a book,” I fibbed. “Do you recognize who’s playing White?”

He replayed a first few moves, squinted, then accelerated forward. “No,” Vernier admitted, “but if I didn’t know better I’d say _you_ had the black pieces; it’s just like you to fall for such a simple pin trap!”

Chagrined yet again, I reclaimed the notepad, and that was the last time I shared the details of the matches. Upon returning home, however, I realized that Vernier had—perhaps unintentionally—hit on a deep truth. Despite the most undisputable fact of Bishop López’ participation in these games, it would be incorrect of me to publish them as the _genuine_ play of Ruy López de Segura. For he, having lived in the sixteenth century, made a mark on history that persisted all the way to my discovery of chess analysis. In opposing him, I cannot escape the knowledge of the past that lies between us, and his decisions in response are inauthentic, distorted.

It would have been bad enough if my epiphany had been limited to the small domain of one board game, but I fear its ramifications run deeper still. For if what is meaningful in one century is incoherent in another, surely that spells defeat for the dreamers like Leibniz and John Wilkins? It is impossible to forge a language that categorizes every concept in the cosmos, where truth is precise and unambiguous, when the time and place of a message are necessary to comprehend its significance.

Perhaps time is not like a staccato series of moments that a god might freeze and start at will, but more like a continuous line. If the eminent scholar Bolzano is to be believed, and we accept the indubitable facts that

a) there was a time when certain beliefs and styles (e.g. chivalric romance, aggressive play at board games, conventional forms of religious faith) could be created or held in good faith by the leading intellectual lights of their day, and,

b) we have arrived at a time when these things cannot be taken seriously,

it necessarily follows that there was a first moment, a supremum, when old fashions inevitably passed out of style, defeated by too many imitators and tragedies and theodicies. My sonnets, well-crafted as they may be, belong to a venerable tradition, and I can only hope that they have arrived before that moment when rhyme and meter are discarded as elements of the past.

This gives new urgency to a task I have set myself, namely, becoming _an_ author—not _the_ author—of _Don Quixote_. At first I thought it would be straightforward enough to cease to be myself and become Miguel de Cervantes in full, for if López thought nothing of voyaging through time, so could Cervantes. But of course this will not satisfy, for how could I justify de Cervantes’ style when so much of our literary heritage has changed? This would be unforgivably trite, as pointlessly idealistic in my day as Quixote’s own tilting at windmills was in his.

No, what is important is not only reality but appearance—I must convince my peers that I am Menard, not de Cervantes, and quite aware of all that has occurred between us. For what might be a simple turn of phrase to him cannot be taken so self-importantly for me; I must portray the layers of irony and meaninglessness inherent in the task, yet not deviate from the particular arrangement of letters cast down so long ago. Obviously you will agree that I have a harder task than de Cervantes, who merely created an original saga, ever set himself to.

As of yet I do not know what course of study I will immerse myself in to be able to achieve this perspective, but I am confident it is a lofty goal and well worth pursuing. As for López, after several weeks he thanked me for my time but said he had some business to be about elsewhere, and I have not heard word of him since.


End file.
